it was like poplars

not travelled through. not intoxicated
by a single mother-mouth, by our single-bedded
mouths axsphinxiated I foresee twins of our twin bundled in
red haschisch hair NO, YOU CANNOT SAVE YOURSELF. moon
fecondated by yellow scalpels and when we come it is always above
the childish fasces of our aborted gods, glare of devout dew on no father
Peroma, (violently) Them, his Other, who dreamwalks throughout
our rambody, unattended. slitted

into green cavities of places they left my pee there
is ambrosia within Veronese spheres, slackened in their birthpath
by left-overs of syllable’s flesh under the naked kidneys of the dormitories

where agates suckle our linens, scribbled sinews of stars
to secrete us (the crime of a brown mountain) to imitate that mercy
you escaped as them, but back alive - when He has stop happening

does the body recall being made out
of deluges, if someone
or something

they move somewhere
where they can no longer be seen

to stop happening, to stop existing or being noticeable,
to disappear, or to stop existing if something stops
it does not continues to disappear slowly to disappear
in a sudden & mysterious way or if someone dissolves it, it stops
existing if something such as a body
evaporates, it suddenly disappears

to stop happening or

you were not procreated before small handjobs of virtue
but because of them

they will extract themselves ; hips splanged
with scolopendra blue branches

i really thought you could sleep

women disguised them
like midnight eggs

our young slaves, almost white now, almost
eviscerated upon you to fill our house with water
of raindeerness ; to seduce what is left
of our slaves, almost white now, almost
scattered not disrobed but pleased to show me the
thirst they sat in a ceremonious circle of pith

their face could not be thought of, or be seen
by anyone, outside of anyone they are spinning a small ring
of purple hay in the middle of them & eventually

they will extract themself, the opposite of dismembered galaxies
we shall make them think it is a calm realm here

when the sun spits greek afternoons they shall be near things, beautiful things
are nothingness about to be abolished they shall think about their own body
naked, or desire to be naked soon, and they were not mine. and discarnate time
could nonetheless hurt their harmony
of ferrets, some of us homewalking near them

there is an oil of terrestrial horses growing back around the uterus
of their travels but the nun changed her mine, turned into a marble vein that never
within a mass of our vein, the one that is less apart from the hutch there
we have four eyes then none I desire not to desire desired desire
when you are away I wish the absence of nightingales upon
your eyelash, s, as we expected a futur that was bled before the invention of
corpus, anima lacta, spoken sulphur, on the bed on the carpet i am one of so many
beautiful things are long-kept disciples of those who died


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